+Queen.+ I had [such] thoughts, Cleantha; But they are vanish'd. What shall we invent To take off fear and trouble from this hour? Poor Floriana, thou art trembling now With thought of wounds and death, to which the courage Of thy fierce husband, like a headstrong jade, May run away with him. But clear thy sorrows: If he fall in this quarrel, thou shalt have Thy choice 'mong the Castilian lords; and (give My judgment faith) there be brave men among them. +Flo.+ Madam, I have vowed my life to a cloister, Should I survive my lord. +Queen.+ And thou art fearful Thou shalt be forc'd to make thy promise good! Alas, poor soul! enclosure and coarse diet, Much discipline and early prayer, will ill Agree with thy complexion. There's Cleantha, She hath a heart so wean'd from vanity, To her a nunnery would be a palace. +Cle.+ Yes, if your majesty were abbess, madam: But cloister up the fine young lords with us, And ring us up each midnight to a masque, Instead of matins, and I stand prepar'd To be profess'd without probation. [_Drum beats._ +Flo.+ Hark! what noise is that? +Queen.+ 'Tis that of death and mischief. My griefs! but I'll dissemble them [_Aside._]--Yet why, Cleantha, being the sole beauteous idol Of all the superstitious youth at court, Remain'st thou yet unmarried? +Cle.+ Madam, I Have many servants, but not one so valiant, As dares attempt to marry me. +Queen.+ There's not a wit, but under some feign'd name Implores thy beauty: sleep cannot close up Thy eyes, but the sad world benighted is, Or else their sonnets are apocryphal: And when thou wak'st, the lark salutes the day, Breaking from the bright east of thy fair eyes. And if 'mong thy admirers there be some Poor drossy brain, who cannot rhyme thy praise, He wooes in sorry prose. _Enter +Servant+._ +Ser.+ Half of the city Already is possess'd by th' enemy! Our soldiers fly from the assailants, who With moderation use their victory. So far from drawing blood, th' abstain from spoil. +Queen.+ My comforts now grow charitable. This Is the first dawning of some happier fortune. [_Aside._ +Flo.+ Where did you leave my lord? +Ser.+ Retiring hither. +Queen.+ And your good nature will in time, Cleantha, Believe all flattery for truth. +Cle.+ In time I shall not: but for the present, madam, give Leave to my youth to think I may be prais'd, And merit it. Hereafter, when I shall Owe art my beauty, I shall grow perhaps Suspicious there's small faith in poetry. +Queen.+ Can'st thou think of hereafter? Poor Cleantha! Hereafter is that time th' art bound to pray Against: hereafter is that enemy That without mercy will destroy thy face; And what's a lady then?